


Whatever the Cost

by NerdyChicksHaveMoreFun



Series: For the Sake of Family Trilogy [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyChicksHaveMoreFun/pseuds/NerdyChicksHaveMoreFun
Summary: Ellyn-Davina Jones has loved and lost, and after being released from centuries of servitude as the captain of the Flying Dutchman, she is determined to find happiness with the few people she cares about. Through curses, the finding of lost loved ones, and more than a few brushes with Death, she and Rumpelstiltskin will do whatever it takes to hold their odd little family together.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Emma Swan, Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold/Original Female Character(s)
Series: For the Sake of Family Trilogy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/106661
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Trying out a prologue for book 2 of an old series I've fallen out of writing, but never fallen out of love with. I'm hoping that jumping around and writing things as I think of them, instead of writing chronologically, will help get me back into the swing of things.

* * *

_Searching through the darkness below,_

_For a light in seas of shadow_

_Far from you but I could never_

_Abdicate, I'll fight forever_

-Starset, _Down with the Fallen_

* * *

Lightning strikes like a gunshot, and for a second the roaring waves are washed with light. One sailor, barely more than a boy, pauses amidst the crew's frantic scrambling to stare at a shape illuminated by the lightning's strike: another ship. The world falls dark again, storm clouds hiding even the moonlight, and still the boy stares into the darkness towards the ship; there is a horror and a knowing in his gaze.

In the next second, when the crack of lightning again lights up the world, the ship is gone.

* * *

The captain raises her hand; a wave of silver energy, ethereal and fog-like, sweeps over the ship, and the _Flying Dutchman_ vanishes from mortal sight. The sea still churns and roars, but the furious waves are calmed mere feet before they can slam into the hull. First mate Liam Jones yells his orders, stalking the decks with a practiced gait, but the captain stands silent and alone behind the wheel, unmoving amidst the chaos, her hulking pair of shadow-hounds pacing hungrily, impatiently. She is waiting, as they all have been.

The next strike of lightning sees a man standing beside her, raven-faced and slight of build; onyx eyes glow from within the shadows of his face like two orbs of black glass candle-lit from behind.

"Captain." He greets. She does not turn her face to acknowledge his presence, though her hounds ghost to her side, lips curling back in silent snarls. Across the waves, there is panic on the merchant ship; it is doomed, and senses it's fate.

When she finally speaks, she recites, low and cold, "A hundred and forty-nine years. Three hundred sixty-four days. Twenty hours."

"I am aware."

"You have a deal to keep."

"And you have four more hours of service." Comes the cold reply, annoyance flashing through onyx eyes.

In the distance, towering waves slam the merchant ship, splintering wood and sweeping men into the roiling water.

"One more ship." She says.

"One more ship." He confirms. His eyes bore into her soul- quite literally. "You remember my conditions, I trust."

The words of the pact hang between them: _you will not see him before the curse is cast._

A weight settles over the captain, and cold, worn-out anger slides across her face. "What difference will those few years make? Curse or not, you know I'll find him."

"He will still suffer in _those few years_. That is difference enough."

" _That_ is childish pettiness." She returns venomously. Her companion raises an eyebrow.

"Perhaps. But you forget, Davey Jones, that I am not a man to be slighted." It is both an explanation and a warning.

The captain turns her head, gazing at him appraisingly; her eyes are pitch-black from corner to corner, drowned in the same glowing onyx as his irises.

"Whoever said that Death wasn't cruel?" She asks, humor in her tone but bitterness on her face.

"Life is far crueler."

The waters churn and crash and roar around them, and the merchant ship is swallowed by the sea.

* * *

Morning light washes over a beach littered with splintered wood, seaweed, and dead and dying sea life. Birds and men alike pick through the storm's aftermath, slowly clearing it of anything valuable. Along the water's edge, one man pauses, eyes catching on a familiar shape laying limply amongst the wreckage. He calls out to his fellows, and makes his way to the body as they approach.

It is a woman, sprawled on her back, her hair fanned out around her. She is not breathing, something the man sees with some sadness as he crouches next to her, though he is not surprised. Her features are plain, marked by a crooked, once-broken nose and crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, her skin sun-tanned and wind-burnt. Though she is less than thirty in appearance, grey streaks run through brown, wavy hair. A long navy-blue cloak drapes over a brown vest, black shirt, and grey pants, every inch of fabric soaking wet.

Then her eyes flash open, and they are a glowing, burning black from corner to corner. The man yelps and scrambles back, and as he watches, that blackness retreats into her pupils, revealing the whites of her eyes, then near-black irises. He backs farther away as her chest suddenly heaves with breath, and he makes a sign against evil as his friends arrive, drawn by his alarm.

They stare as the woman sits up, face dazed and distance, but very much alive. She lifts her hands and stares at them, turning them over as though fascinated by the sight. Suddenly, as though struck by some inspiration, she pulls her shirt and vest to the side, revealing an oblong scar on her chest, over her heart. Her hands run across her throat, feeling another scar that traces a thin horizontal line where the bottom of her jaw meets her neck. A broad, visceral smile breaks across her face, one that chills the onlookers to the bone. With a confident snap of her fingers, her clothes are instantly dry. A frightened murmur ripples through the group, prompting most of the men to back away and make the sign against evil over their chests. The woman glances over to them for the first time, her predatory delight falling to a gentler, bemused expression.

"It's not polite to stare, you know." She climbs unsteadily to her feet, and to crowd she is momentarily familiar, just another sailor readjusting to walking on land.

"Who are you?" One of the younger men asks, wary but curious, and he is rewarded with a charming smile that is so startlingly far from that first near-manic grin.

"I am Ellyn Davina Jones. Most people call me Davey." The group exchange nervous, confused glances; _it can't be_ that _Davey Jones,_ they seem to doubtfully say. The woman's smile grows wider, more predatory. "Run along now, children." She adds with a flick of the wrist, and the sand next to them explodes with a crack of energy. They all but shriek, scattering and fleeing with impressive efficiency. Ellyn chuckles as she watched them scramble away, momentarily enjoying the simple pleasure of watching grown men behave like frightened mice. When the last man is little more than a distant speck on the beach, she pulls a compass from her pocket. The lid is a shiny, gold-framed black, and flipping it open reveals a needle that decidedly does not point north.

She sets off in the indicated direction, enjoying the warmth of the day, and the gentle washing of the waves on sand, and the way that every heartbeat sings _I am alive, I am alive, I am alive_.


	2. Reunions

There's a memory of how we used to be

That I can see through the flames

I am hypnotized as I fantasize

Forgetting lies and pain, but I can't go back

Starset _, Point of No Return_

* * *

**Storybrooke**

When I run, I reach a semblance of meditative peace that I rarely feel otherwise.

When I lope through the trees, blood pounding through my veins and the drumbeat of a rock band pounding in my ears, the rest of the world seems distant; memories and guilt and grief can not manifest in a mind that has to be laser-focused on keeping footing and keeping pace. Two, then three miles pass under my feet before the trees thin, and suddenly I burst into the sunlight, skidding to a halt, chest heaving for breath. Thirty yards away, the ground falls away into a sharp cliff face, and a hundred feet below me is the small Storybrooke bay, the town sprawling out and away from it. The sun is just rising, painting the water red and gold, and I pause for a few seconds to admire the sight as I catch my breath.

Less than a minute later, Skriker and Padfoot arrived, panting as they lope up to me, tails wagging. They are jet-black, muscular beasts, bearing the stocky build and short hair that would suggest mastiff heritage, but the long, angular snouts and pointed ears of more wolf-like breeds. Between the two of them, they are over three hundred pounds of athletic muscle, and though Skriker is longer and thicker, both dogs' heads come nearly to the bottom of my sternum. 

"Where'd you wander off to?" I ask good-naturedly, still short of breath. In response, the pair crowded around my legs, tails wagging, nuzzling my hands and trying to push each other out of the way. After a few seconds of attention fractionally calms the pair of hounds, I straighten and take a deep breath. "Twenty-four minutes is the time to beat, lads. Heel."

And I plunge back into the woods with the hounds loping at my sides, enjoying the cool air, and the thrum of music, and the way that the pounding of blood through my veins sings _I am alive,_ _I am alive, I am alive._

* * *

A few hours later, I'm pulling on my jacket when my phone rings. An old picture of Graham lights up my screen, displaying a twenty-something boy with longer hair and a more overgrown beard than the current Sheriff. The Rocky Mountains rise in the background, a testament to one of our last big vacations together.

I put it on speaker and set it on the coat rack's shelf. "What's going on, lad?" I ask, pulling a navy-blue eye patch on over my dead left eye.

"I can't make it to lunch. I... Henry's missing." I freeze, staring at the phone in muted horror, and the hounds shift closer, sensing my distress. "Regina is beside herself. I'm with her until we find him."

I pause, calculating, trying to ignore the unease that comes from Graham being in proximity with our lovely major. "I'll put the word out. If any of my mates see him, you'll know."

"Thanks, Mum. I'll call you later."

"Alright. Be careful, lad. Love you."

"Love you too."

After the phone goes silent, I stand there for several seconds, mind racing. Though I don't see Henry often, I hold some affection for him; most everyone in the town does, despite his mother. He's a good-hearted and clever boy, and one of the few people that the hounds show an undeniable love for. The idea of him being missing sparks an anxiety in me that I haven't felt since Graham's first night as a deputy.

I let the hounds into the back seat of my old Cadillac and plop down behind the wheel, pausing to send a mass text to all the dockworkers who aren't on shift.

_ "Anyone been by the parks or the school today? Graham and the mayor are looking for Henry." _

It's only a short drive to the docks, but by the time I arrive, my phone is flooded with responses. Both Ed Thatch and Mary haven't left their houses today; Anne is concerned, but hasn't seen him; Ed Kenway offers to swing by the park and check; and so on down the list. Well over a dozen people haven't seen hide nor hair of the missing boy, and I thump my head back against the seat, frustrated.

"It's going to be a long day, boys." I say to the hounds. They wag their tails back at me, unperturbed.

* * *

**Enchanted Forest**

A woman in a long, navy-blue coat and wide-brimmed hat stalked through the tunnels of the mine, gingerly stepping around guards and dwarves alike as they scurried about, oblivious to her presence. An odd sword hung at her side, and equally odd symbols were traced in silver onto the eyepatch that had been casually draped over the sword’s hilt.  Two shadow-hounds paced beside her, their ethereal bodies seeming to shift and distort at the edges, like smoke being blown in the wind. Their eyes were a bright, bloody red; hers were glowing onyx, like light off black glass. The trio wound their way deeper into the mines, where daylight had never touched the stones and the flickering torchlight played odd tricks on the hounds’ forms. 

They paused outside the hallway to his cell. Voices filtered down the hallway, and Davey leaned against the wall, scowling. She nonetheless waited patiently, listening to Regina’s gloating, smiling when it slowly soured in the face of Rumplestiltskin’s reason. When the Evil Queen finally swept past her, Davey and the hounds slipped into the hallway. 

“Oh, what now?!” Rumpelstiltskin demanded as he turned, expecting to see Regina waiting with a clever, last-minute quip. He blinked, comically owlish, when he was greeted by an empty hallway. 

Davey Jones grinned and motioned a hand over herself and her hounds, and silver, fog-like energy washed over them. The Dark One shot forward, gripping the bars of his cell and pressing his face between them, wide eyes darting across their now-visible forms as though not quite believing the sight. 

“Hello, Rum.” Davey said softly. 

“ _ Ellyn _ .” He breathed, and a wide grin stretched across her face to hear his voice again. 

Ellyn-Davina Jones crossed the distance between them in three long strides, discarding her hat to press a deep, seating kiss to his lips, their arms reaching for each other through the bars. When they parted for breath, it was only to press their foreheads together, to stare into eyes they had not seen for almost a hundred and eighty years. 

Tears fell silently down Davey's smiling face, and Rumple frowned, worried, to see her eyes. Though one bore her near-black irises, the left remained covered by the Netherworld Sight, obsidian from corner to corner. He drew back slightly and ran the pad of his thumb across her cheek, below that eye. 

"What happened here?" He asked softly.

"An age old deal: an eye for an eye. I think I wear it better than Odin, if I say so myself." Her tone was light, but there was grief under it that he recognized almost immediately. His expression grew more worried, and Davey wrapped a hand around his wrist, slowly pulling his hand from her face and kissing the palm. "The fairest deals leave both sides feeling cheating. And I needed my familiars back." The hounds wagged their ghostly tails, and Davey added, lighter, "Besides, I found something that helps."

She grabbed her eyepatch and held it to her eye, giving Rum a second to study the silver geometric runes painted on it. Then she tapped her index finger against it twice, and the silver marking began to move, lines rearranging themselves into a drawing of an eye. The lines glowed bright silver, the light overtaking the entirety of the eye, and when it faded the drawn eye was replaced by a clear, glass-like surface; Davey's dark iris blinked back at him through it. Rumplestiltskin let out a delighted giggle.

"Clever, clever, little wolf." He praised. "And you've got another new toy." 

"Fragarach." She explained proudly, lowering the eyepatch from her left eye-- which returned to glowing obsidian-- to touch the blade's hilt. "Thanatos gifted it to me so that I could control the winds. 'Course, he took it out of my family's vault at Castle Corbin."

“And Dyrnwyn?” He asked, referring to the favored flaming sword that had also once sat in the vault of Castle Corbin, and had vanished in the circumstances surrounding Davey’s death. He had kept an ear out for it, but to no success; it was likely in Annwn with those  _ thieving, conniving, bastardous  _ magician-nobles. 

“Hell if I know. Rumor is that a king by the name of Rhydderch came into it, but I didn’t have time to look into it.”

“Time, time. Keeps on coming, and flows right by.” Davey paused as she listened to Rum sing-song the lines, almost likely he was reciting a nursery rhyme. There was a distant, wavering sadness on his face, and she searched his eyes for hints of insanity; she had worried what this place might do to him, trapped under a mountain of nauseating faery magic with only the voices from the Dagger for company. But he seemed as mentally sound as he ever had been, and continued, “We’ve had too much time apart, so little together.” 

Davey hummed an agreement. “This day has taken too long to get here. I don’t know how I would have coped without the letters.” The wording of Davey’s deal with Death had been so very specific, and she had kept it by not  _ seeing  _ her lover for nearly thirty years; it had not stopped them from writing, nor stopped him from watching her from afar. Once, in frustration and desperation, she had suggested that she simply wear a blindfold, but Rum was far more cautious of Thanatos than she was, and suspected that the terms of their deal could only be bent so far before it broke. 

Thunder seemed to shake the ground, and Davey glanced back down the hallway. Beyond it, both knew that the Dark Curse was rolling across the land, mere minutes away. Fear and a deep, visceral sorrow slashed across Davey’s face, and Rumple squeezed her hand. 

“You’ll have a good life under the curse. I made sure of it.” He flashed a reassuring smile, knowing it was in vain for both of them. 

“A good life, but not a happy one.”

The smile fell from his face. “That  _ was  _ the point.” He said after a long moment, adding, “But Death himself won’t stop me from finding you.”

Davey grinned at that choice of words. “I’d hope not. He didn’t stop  _ me  _ from finding  _ you _ .” The ground shook again, harder and more insistent. Davey took a deep, shaky breath and drew the Dark One’s forehead to hers once more. “Be clever. Be careful. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

**Storybrooke**

By early afternoon, Graham sends me a short text to say that Henry came back; by early evening, word has gotten around town about the stranger who accompanied him. An hour or two later, when I and some of the dockworkers are playing a game of pool at The Rabbit Hole, another text comes in from Graham, and I curse under my breath.

"What's going on, boss?" Thatch asks from across the table; he's a little tipsy, and leaning on his pool stick for balance.

"That new girl wrecked her car into the town sign. Graham's staying late at the station to get started on the paperwork."

Anne lets out a bemused huff. "She's caused a lot of trouble in one day."

"My kind of woman," Thatch replies with a lecherous grin, and Anne and I roll our eyes.

"Your kind of woman is hunched over a cauldron, trying to lure children into her gingerbread house." I correct.

"Maybe, but at least she'd have two eyes." He shoots back. I throw a chalk cube at his head for that one, and Mary comes to my defense as it glances off his forehead.

"Your women better have  _ no _ eyes, if you want 'em to sleep with ya'."

"Take a knee, Thatch." Kenway says, clapping a hands onto Thatch's shoulder before he can reply. "You couldn't outwit the girls if you were sober."

Thatch grumbles good-naturedly under his breath, but wisely chooses not to retort to Mary and bring another round of taunting down on himself. We slip back into idle chat and gentle mocking as the first game comes to a close and the next begins. Hours bleed into each other, and we prove an efficient group; by the time eleven o'clock rolls around, Mary has bested me at several games of pool, Thatch is thoroughly trashed, and Kenway has absconded with a tipsy brunette. After losing yet another round of pool to my dayshift manager, I say my goodbyes and start to slip on my jacket.

"Hey, you good to drive, Fallon?" Anne asks, a hard challenging note in her voice.

"Haven't had anything to drink since nine." I assure her. "You guys got Thatch, or do you want me to take him home?"

Anne snorts. "I'm not his mother."

"Mary?" I ask hopefully.

"Sounds like the harbormaster's responsibility to me."

"Screw you both." I say with no real venom. "And text me when you get home." They agree and shoo me away, and I weave through the small crowd to where Thatch sits at the bar, the black-haired dockworker sipping a drink and rambling to no one in particular. I loop an arm around his shoulder.

"Who the fu- hey, boss." He slurs slightly, but despite his lack of physical coordination, Thatch often retains passable pronunciation while drunk.

"Hey, Ed. Time to go home, mate."

"Oh, com'on, Fallon! I already paid for the next drink." Over Thatch's shoulder, the bartender makes a face and glances to me, shaking his head  _ no _ .

"You've been cut off for a bit now. Kinda impressive, really," I say, glancing at the clock over the bar and reaffirming that it is, in fact, not yet midnight. I glance back over to the bartender. "Keys, John?"

Usually, the bartenders takes people's keys when they start getting too tipsy to drive, but John shakes his head. "He said he didn't bring them."

"Eddy drove me." Ed Thatch pipes up, referring to Ed Kenway. I sigh deeply.

"And did you remember to bring your house key this time?"

He stares at me blankly for a second. "It's on my key ring-"

"Which is in your house." I run a hand through my hair, annoyed but not surprised; this seems to happen at least once a week. "Alright. We'll get the spare from your brother in the morning."

Thatch grumbles more protests as I guide him off his stool and towards the door. I keep an arm looped around his waist, and he in turn swings one around my shoulders, and between the two of us, his uneven, staggering gate is manageable. We emerge into the cool, crisp air of the parking lot, and I whistle, high and loud, to call the hounds to me. By the time I've leaned Thatch against my car, Skriker and Padfoot materialize from the darkness, tails wagging as they trot up to us. I give them a quick pat and let them in to the back, then circle around to dump Thatch into the passenger seat.

The radio blasts to life when the engines do, flooding the car with drumbeats and guitar riffs. I pull out of the parking lot, and for a few blessed minutes the night is calm and filled with music. We pull onto Storybrooke's main street, passing Granny's Diner and then the pawnshop. I glance at the clock tower, then to Ed, frowning.

"When did they get the clock fixed?" I ask, and Ed gives a noncommittal grunt. As we drive, the town dissolves into suburbs, and then into forest. I've long since drifted into idle thoughts when I slow to turn into my driveway, and-

I slam on the brakes, throwing the hounds against the back of our seats and Ed into the dashboard. Ed yelps and yells curses, and then abruptly falls silent. Standing in my headlights is a wolf, an honest-to-God wolf, though its not nearly as big as Skriker. I swear that it is staring at me- not stunned by the glare of the headlights, not looking at the car, but looking, searchingly, at  _ me _ . One eye is blood-red, almost glowing in the light, and the other is a pitch-black pool of obsidian. Something crowds the back of my mind, insistent, tugging at the reaches of memory. Then the crunch of tires on asphalt snaps the beast's head to the side. As another car pulls up behind us, the wolf lopes off, melting into the darkness of the forest, and for a second I simply stare after it.

"Was that a fuckin' wolf?" Ed asks dumbly.

"A small one."

"You call that fuckin' small!" Ed roars back, unable to quite register just how loud he's being in his drunken state, and I shoot him an annoyed look.

" _ Volume _ , mate. You and your bloody fucking- whose behind us?"

Instead of looking into the rear view mirror as I am, Ed twists awkwardly in his seat, straining his head around to look behind us, and getting his face licked by Padfoot for his efforts.

"Hmm. Nice car."

"You've a real help, mate." I reply dryly. I evaluate the car through my mirror for another second, and glance back to the hounds. "On guard." I command, and the pair go stock still, ears shoved forward, all honed focus and tense muscle.

I ease down the driveway, heart rate leveling off to a staccato rhythm, adrenaline sharpening my mind. We wind through the trees for a few seconds, the Mercedes following behind us, until we emerge into the two-acre clearing my house sits in. I pull right up to the porch steps and park, an eye on the rearview mirror to track the other car as it pulls up. Before it can even park, I swing out of the driver's seat and release the hounds from the back seat; they surge out, covering half the distance to the Mercedes in a heartbeat and snapping into stiff-legged, territorial stances, three hundred pounds of coiled muscle and disciplined aggression. I shut the doors and cross my arms, waiting. The Mercedes' headlights wink out, and a man slowly steps from within. The silhouette is familiar, and when the car door shuts to reveal a gold-topped cane, I stroll towards him.

"It's a little late in the night to be collecting rent, Gold." I call light-heatedly as I reach the hounds, keeping my suspicion well in check. The dogs look at me questioningly, body language already beginning the transition from aggression to excitement. "At ease." I add to them, and they bound forward, tails wagging. I walk after them, and by the time I reach them, Gold has given both pups companionable pats on the head.

Gold glances up to me, and for a minute chocolate-brown eyes are filled with some complex emotion I can't quite identify, but see written viscerally across his face. In the space of a heartbeat, his face falls into polite concern.

"Is everything alright? You stopped rather quickly."

I glance past him, to the darkness and the forest it hides. "Yeah. Yeah, we're fine. A wolf ran out in front of us."

He cocks an eyebrow, but there's a certain intentional stillness to his face that betrays calculating thoughts. "A wolf? It's far from home."

"So are you." I reply with a cold, too-polite smile. A small, amused grin creeps across his face in response. "What can I do for you?"

"Perhaps we could discuss this inside?” 

Now it’s my turn to cock an eyebrow. “There’s a  _ this  _ to discuss?” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I hear the impact of a body on the ground, and a pained grunt. A glance over my shoulder shows that Thatch has gotten his door open as we’ve been talking, and proceeded to pass out and roll, face-first, onto the ground. I rub the heel of my hand against my head. “Yeah, lets talk inside. Get the door, will you? It’s unlocked.”

“You don’t lock your doors?” 

I glance to Gold as I haul Thatch off the ground, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “The hounds make sure that no one comes around uninvited.” 

Thatch doesn’t wake as I haul him up, leaning him against the side of my car to help leverage him to his feet and sling his arm over my shoulders.  _ Thank god I lift weights _ , I grumble internally, panting for breath. 

“Padfoot, door.” I command, and the hound paws the passenger door shut. “Good boy. Com’on, inside.”

Gold holds the doors, and the hounds lead the way inside as I drag Thatch’s unconscious body into my house. I immediately swing a right, staggering down a short hallway and shouldering the guest room open. I plop Thatch down on top of the covers and stand there for a minute, trying to regain my breath. 

“If I’m going to keep doing this, mate, you’re gonna need to lose a few pounds.” I grumble as I lean forward and roll him onto his side. 

“Does this happen often?” Gold asks, and I jump nearly out of my skin. I turn to find him leaning in the doorway, a cocky half-smile curling across his lips for having startled me. The moonlight bathes half of his sharp features in pale light and leaves the other half in shadow, and for a second he is an otherwordly creature, and an oddly familiar one.

“Often enough. You’d think he’d get tired of being hungover.” I muse. “Com’on, lets let him sleep it off.”

Gold turns sideways against the doorframe, motioning for me to lead the way, and I step past him and stroll down the hallway, the dogs ranging ahead. We emerge into the living room, and I turn on the lights and motion towards the sectional and armchair in the center of the room. 

“Make yourself at home.” I say, though I myself stop at the front door to shed my coat and hang it up. After a moment’s consideration, I remove my eyepatch as well, and set it on the coatrack’s shelf with my carkeys. I’ve found that a quick way to get a measure of a man, is to study how he reacts to an unencumbered view of my dead eye; in this world, it is one thing for a man to have battle scars, another for a woman to bear them.

I feel Gold’s eyes on me as I remove the eyepatch, and when I turn, I find him perched on the edge of the sectional, Padfoot laying next to his feet and Skriker pressed into his side on the couch. I’ve never understood the love the hounds have for this man, nor do I understand the emotion that slides across his face when he sees mine. To his credit, though, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stare for more than the millisecond where that emotion crosses his face. 

_ Was that  _ grief _? Curious.  _

I keep my face blank and cross to the fireplace. “Rum?” I ask, glancing to Gold as I retrieve a bottle from the mantel, and now he  _ does  _ flinch, hard. Then he glances to the bottle in my hand; comprehension dawns on his face, and just like that, his face shutters, becomes the usual disciplined surety. 

“No, thank you.” He says, so smoothly for a man who a second ago looked like he’d been slapped. 

Curious indeed. 

Outwardly, I shrug and pour myself half a glass. I cross to the armchair, settled down, and prop my feet up on the coffee table. 

“What can I do for you, Gold?” I ask, not for the first time tonight. 

After a moment, he replies, “Have you heard about Emma Swann?”

“Hmm. More than some, but I suspect less than you.”

A slow, sly grin cracks his face. “Perhaps. What I  _ do  _ know is that her impact will not end with a broken sign.”

Though I study him calmly for a moment, my mind is racing, picking through every single thing I know about Swann. “You think Swann is going to try to get custody of Henry.” 

“I do.”

“Regina won’t let that happen.”

“Of course not. But that won’t stop her from trying.”

I take a sip of rum, drum my fingers thoughtfully against the glass. “They’ll both want your help.” His self-satisfied half-smile confirms that he plans on it. “The question is why you want mine.” 

He leans back, spreads his hands. “I am one man with many interests. I need another pair of eyes to keep track of all of them.”

There it is. He needs a lacky, a henchman. 

“Unfortunately, I only have one to offer.” I reply dryly, and equally dry bemusement sparkles in his eyes. I lean my head back against the chair, taking a sip of rum and regarding Gold cooly for several seconds. “I already have a job, and it’s one where  _ I’m  _ in charge. Why would I want to trade that for a job where I answer to you?”

“I am not asking you to work  _ for  _ me. I am asking you to work  _ with  _ me. A partnership, if you will.”

For a second, I blink dumbly at the man. When I do speak, I can’t keep the suspicion from my voice. “And why would the most powerful man in Storybrooke want an equal?”

“A partner is not necessarily an equal.” He corrects, a deceptively light mischief twinkling in his eyes, and I crack a bemused grin.

“Then I’m afraid we’ve circled back to my original point. I am curious, though: why come to me? I’m sure there are others who would jump at the opportunity, and would be far more… malleable.”

Gold leans forward, staring at me intentently. “I am not interested in  _ malleable _ , Fallon. I am interested in  _ you _ .  _ Your  _ skills. You were the heart of this town’s black market, as diminutive as it was.”

I narrow my eyes at him, though it comes as no real surprise that he knows about it; I’ve long suspected that he was one of the anonymous players in that particular game. I swirl the liquid around my glass thoughtfully and take another sip, measuring my words. 

“I’m afraid that those particular skills haven’t been used in years.” 

“I’m aware. I remember when you left-- I watched it all come crashing down. No one could fill the vacuum you left in your wake, though they certainly tried.” A predatory, lupine grin crosses his face. “That was right around the time that Graham became Sheriff, wasn’t it?”

I go stock still, and the hounds raise their heads to look at me, concerned. I’ve tried very hard to keep my relation to Graham a secret, largely because of his current profession and my previous extra-curricular activities. I have told only my dockworkers of it, and since many of them were apart of my extracurricular activities-- and followed me in my exodus from them-- I trust them completely. A handful of other people throughout the town suspect that Graham and I know each other personally, but only that trusted handful know that I spent nearly a decade as his foster mother. 

And, apparently, Gold knows as well.

“Do you plan to use me against him?” I ask, low and dangerous, and Gold looks almost startled by the notion-- another curious fact that I store away. Meanwhile, the hounds tense at my tone, knowing that it often foretells a command being issued. Gold’s eyes flicker to them briefly, perhaps for the first time realizing that pushing me too far might be hazardous for his health. 

“No, of course not. But I know that he is not entirely happy with his current… alignment.”

“Hmm. Very observant of you.” I say softly, thinking, and the hounds relax to hear my gentler tone. Graham indeed is not happy to be under Mill’s thumb or even in her bed, despite the front he often presents-- even to me. More and more, these observations and facts that Gold presents makes me suspect that he has access to a very useful, very well-hidden source of information.  _ One that I should get my hands on _ , I think distantly. 

Gold absorbs the statement, recognizing the suspicion and curiosity it carries, but continues without pause. “We may be able to pry him from Regina’s grasp--”, I shift forward, intrigued, “--  _ if  _ we work together.” 

I evaluate him for a long moment, and find the offer genuine. I once again lean back in my chair and take a sip of rum, eyes drifting to the mantel, where a picture of Graham sits in front of my brother’s urn.

“You know my salary as the harbormaster?”

“I own the docks.” He confirms wryly. If the triumph has made him smug, he has the decency not to let it show. 

“I want it doubled while I work for you. And I  _ will  _ remain the harbormaster, but I want you to approve promotions and the appropriate raises for Mary Read and Anne Bonny. They’re going to be taking up my slack while I’m with you.” 

“Of course.” He replies smoothly, and I don’t know whether to be surprised by the lack of resistance. He surprises me further by adding, genuinely, “Is there anything else you require?” Seeing my suspicion, he adds, “I find that partnerships last longer when one party doesn’t enter it feeling cheated.”

I feel a soft, equally genuine smile tugging at my lips, and say, half-joking and without thinking, “Having lunch provided would be great.”

He seems surprised but amused by the proposition. “I take my lunch at Granny’s. You’re welcome to join me.” 

I let out a small  _ hmmf  _ of amusement at that idea. “Now  _ that  _ will cause a stir.”

“Oh, I plan on it.” He returns immediately, a sharp, predatory delight dancing in the crinkle of his eyes and curve of his lips. He rises to his feet, leaning on his cane, and I stand to match him; the hounds lift their heads heads to watch us, tails wagging. “Meet me at the pawnshop tomorrow morning, and we’ll go over the rest of the details.”

“Alright. Pleasure doing business with you, Gold.”

He shakes the offered hand, some strange, gentle emotion trying very hard to hide behind the lighter satisfaction he projects. I show him to the door, and the hounds and I watch from the doorway as he climbs into his car. I replay a few moments of the night in my mind as he goes, trying to decipher those curious moments where inexplicable emotion crept through the cracks of the pawnbroker’s cool facade.

Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howls, and the hounds howl back. 


End file.
